The Sisters Club (6 page)

Only one problem. I had nothing to wear.

“Nothing to wear,” I said out loud to my closet.

I was standing flamingo-style (on one foot) in my blue jeans and favorite flannel pajama top (covered with cupcakes), staring at a bunch of hangers.

Joey wrinkled her nose at me. “You’re starting to sound like A-L-E-X.”

“And you’re starting to sound like M-O-M.”

I stared at the hangers some more. “You just don’t understand, Little Sister.” Joey wrinkled her nose again.

“Stop wrinkling,” I told her. “You look like a rhinoceros.”

I went down the hall to Alex’s room. I could hear her downstairs banging away on the piano. Only Alex would play Mozart at seven o’clock in the morning.

“You better not go in there without asking!” Joey warned. “Alex said!”

I went in anyway.

Joey stood with her toes just outside the doorway, so technically she did not step into Alex’s room. “It’s your life!” she told me.

I had another idea, a much better idea, and one that did not involve trespassing. I headed straight for the laundry room, where I could hear the
whump, whump
of the dryer.

I quietly click-opened the dryer and took out Alex’s soft, fuzzy red chenille sweater with the big pink star — her favorite. I used to have the same sweater in green, but I washed it with the red one and it came out looking like spaghetti in a blender.

A part of me
knew
Alex was drying the sweater so she could wear it today. But I told myself she had a million other sweaters. I told myself I was sick of being invisible. I told myself the lump of guilt in the pit of my stomach was just the protein bar I’d eaten for breakfast.

I yanked the sweater from the dryer. Perfect! All cozy-warm and soft as kitten fur, with an apple-clean smell. I shrugged it on. The pink star grinned up at me.

For once, I would be the star, not Alex. I hurried and covered it up with my coat before anybody could see. I grabbed my backpack and ran down the street to my friend Olivia’s house, hoping to catch a ride.

I tried not to think about Alex or what would happen after school when I got home. Nothing mattered except for that moment. What a great morning. And it was going to be a great day.

I, middle sister Stevie, had the power of the sweater.

During Language Arts, Ms. Carter-Dunne
gave us ten minutes to pick a famous poem in our book. “I want everyone to choose a poem you like, then use it as a model to write one of your own. Look at the poem’s style. Think about how it’s written. Let the poem inspire you.”

I flipped back and forth through the pages as fast as I could.

“This is an in-class assignment, people. I’ll give you time to write, then we’ll read some of them out loud.”

Out loud! A.k.a.
in front of the whole class
! I broke out in a sweat just thinking about it.

I flipped some more. First I saw a Russian poem, but it had the word
breast.
No way was I going to say “breast” in front of a bunch of fifth-grade boys (half the class!). I almost picked a haiku about trees, but nobody gets a good grade for a haiku. It’s only three lines.

Olivia picked “We Real Cool” right off the bat.

“No fair!” I told her. “What if I want that one?”

“Pick this one.” She opened to a page and pointed.

“No way. The guy says he feels like an eggplant.” That’s when I saw the plums. Plums beat eggplants any day! (Just ask Joey.) So I picked a poem by a plum eater, a Mr. William Carlos Williams.

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

I don’t know what it is with me and poetry — why it was freaking me out. It looks simple enough, but I had to read it over and over about a bazillion times. Then it hit me. Like Mr. William Famous Williams
himself
was talking to me, Stevie Reel. It’s weird, I know, because he was talking about plums, but somehow he knew just how I felt — about the sweater.

I’m Sorry

I have taken
your sweater
that was in
the dryer

and which
you were probably
going to wear
today

Forgive me
I spilled chocolate on it
It wasn’t fair
I used to have the same one

But I still enjoyed
how everyone said
I looked better in it than you

After we had quiet time to write our poems (with Ms. Carter-Dunne looking over our shoulders half the time), she asked me to read my poem aloud in front of the whole class.

My
poem.

Why did she have to pick me? I tried to tell her it was private. I tried to tell her it really wasn’t meant to be read aloud (to a bunch of immature fifth-graders!).

I tried to tell her, but she said, “Nonsense, Stevie. Your poem is a perfect example for the rest of the class. It’s just what I’m looking for. It’s inspiring. No need to be shy.”

Easy for her to say. Why do teachers think that telling you not to be shy will make you not feel shy? Guess what, Ms. Carter-Dunne, Queen of Reading-Aloud-in-Front-of-the-Whole-World? It just makes it worse!

So I, Stevie Reel, who hates acting (despite being a direct descendant of Hepzibiah McNutty), who hates standing up in front of people, had to stand in front of the whole class with sweat circles under my arms (in Alex’s sweater!) and read my poem to twenty-nine pairs of squinty eyes (that’s fifty-eight eyes, guys) while trying not to spit or spray or choke on the last line. Or turn ten shades of red. Or pass out from embarrassment.

At least I didn’t have to say “breast”!

ZITS

Starring Alex

Me:
I had my audition today, Sock Monkey. For the best part ever. Beauty, in
Beauty and the Beast.

Sock Monkey:
Well, I didn’t think you were the Beast!

Me:
Thank you! That’s why I love you so much.
Mww! Mww! (Kissing sounds.)

Sock Monkey:
Then what’s wrong?

Me:
I so did
not
get the part.

Sock Monkey:
What do you mean?

Me:
First of all, I didn’t have my lucky sweater.

Sock Monkey:
How come?

Me:
Because my evil, wicked un-stepsister Stevie stole it from the dryer.

Sock Monkey:
That’s evil! Wicked! Very stepsister-y of her.

Me:
I know. But that’s not even the worst part.

Sock Monkey:
Oh, no. What’s the worst part?

Me:
I messed up my lines.

Sock Monkey:
Everybody makes mistakes.

Me:
Not like this!

Sock Monkey:
It can’t be all that bad.

Me:
It is. Or as Beauty would say, “’Tis a sorrow. ’Tis a tragedy.”

Sock Monkey:
What happened?

Me:
OK, see, there’s this guy I like. . . . His name is Scott Howell. He’s in Drama Club, and he’s really good at acting, and I know he’s going to get the part of Beast.

Sock Monkey:
So you want to star in the play with him, right?

Me:
More than anything. Maybe he would like me if we got to practice together and everything.

Sock Monkey:
You can do it!

Me:
But wait. I haven’t told you the bad part.

Sock Monkey:
Go on.

Me:
We were practicing reading our parts, and I kept noticing this zit he had on his face.

Sock Monkey:
Gross!

Me:
I tried not to look at it. . . .

Sock Monkey:
Maybe he didn’t see you see it.

Me:
I wish! That’s not it. We were saying our lines back and forth for the audition, and I was going along fine. It’s the part where Beauty is trapped at her father’s house, and she has a dream that Beast is dying. She wakes up and has a revelation.

The line goes, “I am indeed quite wicked to cause so much grief to Beast, who has shown me nothing but kindness. Is it his fault that he is so ugly and has so few wits?”

Sock Monkey:
What’s wrong with that?

Me:
I messed up! Now I’ll never get the part, and Scott Howell will hate me forever. Here’s what I said. No lie. I said, “Is it his fault that he is so ugly and has so few
zits
?”

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
(Laughter from evil un-stepsisters offstage.)